A Trifling Matter
by ainulaadne
Summary: A serious case of sarcasm, some routine fanaticism from Romilda Vane, and a bit of unexpected spell damage. Draco Malfoy sets out to justify his ways to men. Does not adhere to HBP or DH. T for "strong coarse language".
1. Arc 1: New Toys

_Rated T for profanity and possible mild graphic content._

_All copyrighted material belongs to people who are not me. JK Rowling, for the most part. _

_Inspiration (and more than a few lines) drawn from Glen Duncan's _I, Lucifer.

_This story is set in the 6__th__ year, and therefore disregards the final two books._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**A Trifle**

* * *

**1.**

I, Draco Malfoy, supposed Junior Death Eater, Prince of Slytherin, Heir to the Malfoy and Black fortunes, Enemy to All Gryffindors, Nemesis of All Members of the Golden Trio, Arch-Nemesis of The Boy Who Lived, known Seducer, Tormentor, all around Bastard, and unquestionably the Best Screw in all of Hogwarts, have decided to tell all.

All? More or less. I am a creature of habit after all. Nothing exciting about the whole truth anyway, right? Can't give all my secrets away. Not me, anyway. Maybe Potter can afford to bath nude in the blinding glow of The Light, but the rest of us mortals have skeletons in the dark parts of our closets. Parts that are dark for a reason. (Except maybe Granger. She's probably only got some argyle socks in _her_ closet. Maybe some books… Romance novels, at a stretch, but Granger's really more of the textbook or biography type.)

Now for your overwhelming torrent of questions – which all, in the end, boil down to the same single one: what is it like… to be me? What is life like for someone rich, pretty (I'm not afraid of admitting what can't be denied. This face? This face on a girl's body would equal one smoking hottie. On a male body, it equals… huh. A smoking hottie. _Gosh._), intelligent, pureblooded, and every other kind of talented? Or maybe the cynics want to know what exactly the sting of an ebony cane feels like when it cracks across your _spine? _

Let me start off by saying, there's the constant impatience that comes with being the only child of a family that is the financial equivalent of some of the countries that used to be in the Soviet Union. It's hard to argue with cash or coins; money makes things move_. _And lots of money means that the things I want tend to move _fast._

But don't expect the same in return. We'll get around to all that lovely, nitty gritty, "human interest" horse manure in due time, sweet cheeks. You'll get your gossip column material, and in the mean time, I get to "right some wrongs". It's not a common practice of mine, but some glaringly obvious gaps in communication just can't go without a bit of recognition.

Namely, the Dark Lord. Not that he doesn't get enough recognition, because honestly, even when the Prophet was jumping through flaming hoops just to keep his name (or rather, to keep his long-ass nickname, "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named") off the papers, he was always sort of there. Like a really bad smell of something not-so-innocuous at a dinner party. You can ignore it, but it does something shitty to your appetite.

So, Voldemort – I keep getting off track – is one of the few dark linings around the silver cloud that makes up my life. As a child I had little to no knowledge of You-Know-Who himself, but dark magic wasn't exactly an unfamiliar friend. Seems like maybe Uncle Voldie might shown up at some family dinners when I was a little bundle of soft baby butt skin, and my biggest contribution to the discussion might have been an angry sounding gurgle, but that's about it. I mean, it's not like I woke up in the morning to chirping birds and the screams of torture victims. There's something distinctly off-putting about blood stains next to your coffee stains, anyway, so if anything like that went on under my feet, it was far enough under that I didn't know about it.

Dark magic's a funny thing. If you're around it, you notice it – the same way you notice when there's someone staring at the back of your neck, you just _know_ – but there's not always a visual component. As a kid, the kind of magic I was most familiar with was the stupid little spells and transfigurations that were on toys, or the boring, practical magic that the House Elves used. Dark magic is neither amusing (at least not in that, "Oh, look, Draco, honey, your pillow's been transfigured into a pig with wings. Would you like to ride it? Here, I'll just charm it so it'll carry you around…" way) nor practical. Dark magic spells are of the "death, death, devil, devil, devil, devil, evil, evil, evil, evil…" variety, that's about it, so for the under ten age group, there's not a large audience.

I mean, to be honest, I'm not exactly wetting my pants over dark curses now, either. Maybe it's just me.

Merlin, what was I even talking about before? One moment, don't go anywhere – okay.

Voldemort.

…Did you expect Carmina Burana to start playing? Or Beethoven's 5th? It's foolish, but we still live in a world where a nine letter nonsense word that happens to bridge the gap in an anagram between "Tom Marvolo Riddle" and "I am Lord __________" (and presumable also, "Shit in your pants, right now." No? Hmm.) can make a fifty year old wizard whimper.

And if you think that imagery's uncomfortable, try imagining it with the man being your own _father…_

But, anyway, more on that later. I'm feeling kind of… peckish.

* * *

"They've had a pretty good season, except for the first few –"

"Purple! Bright purple! And none of the cleaning spells I know are –"

"I just don't know if that's what I really want or if­ –"

"Ugh! Do you take breaks to _breathe _between shoveling food in –"

"'Erryeree, wi' 'oo rah aht, reeee –"

"Don't even _try_ talking to me with food in your mouth! Honestly, Ron! Will you just –"

Ah, the Great Hall. Mudblood Granger was lecturing the Weasel on table manners. I thought about asking her if personal hygiene was the next topic on her Weasley Clan lecture circuit, but I was already past them and I didn't feel like doubling back around just to throw an insult.

And I was, after all, hungry.

I sat down between Pansy and Blaise and began to pile food onto the empty plate in front of me with one hand while Pansy predictably wrapped both of her tentacles around my other arm. The girl is a leech, but she's a friend, and her endless affection can be… endearing… Or stifling. Sometimes she's a doll, and sometimes she can be a bit much.

She tightened her grip, as if in response to my thoughts, and started on the routine monologue about her day-to-day life.

Pansy considers herself to be the ideal girlfriend and has almost no understanding of the concept of boundaries or autonomy. She's got clear skin with an even complexion, hazel eyes, a nice rack, and straight, dark hair that she pretends to be at war with. She can't keep a hairstyle for more than six months and keeps a myriad of pins, clips, scarves, headbands, scrunchies, hair ties, and barrettes lining the bottoms of her purses. Secretly, though, I just know she thinks of it as her crowning (ba-dum, tsss.) glory under which she poses, dramatically, in front of every mirror she encounters.

I considered our friendship while I cut, speared, and ate some chicken, nodded at even intervals, and tried to keep eye contact with her _just _enough for her to think I was listening.

Obviously, some people believe we're going to get married – some of those people might just happen to be our parents – but I'm not convinced that I want what dear ol' Mummy and Pops want for me. Pansy and I have even spoken on the matter and we both pretty much agree that we won't let ourselves be forced into anything, but really, if we had a choice in the matter, it wouldn't be called an arranged marriage. It wouldn't be so bad, though, I suppose – and technically, we _have_ been dating for the past, you know, two years. 'Dating' in name alone. It's like the beginning of a romantic relationship between two twelve year olds, with less sneaking around and awkwardness. Or simply two good friends, who happen to kiss sometimes and be comfortable around each other. I can lay my head in her lap and just listen to her talk while she combs her fingers through my hair, or she can sit on my lap or fall asleep on my shoulder, and it's safe. We're going out. We're allowed.

She is _not_ a whore.

I have only ever had Pansy _once_ and it was during the summer after our fourth year and the honest reason was that neither of us felt like being virgins anymore. And it was _summer_ after all, so we weren't breaking school rules or doing anything _wrong._ (As a matter of fact, sometime I'd love to explain exactly how hard it is to get a girl into your bed at this school. I'm not kidding, it's _insane._ First off there's the girls staircase and it's stupid tricky sliding bullshit, and then there's other jinxes set in place for if you happen to get past _that._)

Pansy is – and this is one of those truths that you can and should take and spread around, I mean it – a good person, and a good friend. She is one of the only people in my life who I know is _genuinely_ concerned for my well-being, for no reason other than that she wants me to be well. Obviously our parents encourage our friendship, but she's not with me because of that. She agrees with me, but not because she has to. She puts up with all of my more offensive moods, and she can throw an insult. She can be clingy, but that's because she's better at physical intimacy than she is at verbal confessions. I'll readily admit that in our younger years she could be a bit of a raving banshee, and sometimes she still gets in those moods... That's what makes her _Pansy_. She's bitchy, crazy, clingy, obsessive, gossipy, melodramatic, staunchly dependable, fiercely protective, and one of two people who I trust completely.

Maybe she's not as clean as the Virgin Mary, but she's not as loose as people tend to think she is, and neither am I. We've both had our share of partners and conquests, possibly more than our share, but sometimes the stories that Pansy overhears and retells to me are _completely_ off the mark.

I don't know _how_ these rumors about Slytherins and their sexual habits get thought up. Pansy, Blaise, and I have _never _had any bet or dare to see how many members of other houses we could screw in a month. We are _not_ on a campaign to see which one of us could get to one of the Golden Trio first. I don't have a private bedroom with a king sized bed. Who comes up with these things? And who perpetuates them? Not the Gryffindors, although I know they're responsible for most of the, "Malfoy kills puppies and steals candy from children" stories. I suppose I'm not meant to know, I'm just supposed to nod along and –

Oh, right. Pansy.

"…told her that it was totally useless, 'cause, you know, you've got to try harder than _stalking_ to impress someone these days…"

Good. Sounds like I didn't miss anything.

Blaise, on the other side of me, is very nearly catatonic by now. He puts in a little more effort to listen to her than I do, and it only ends up leading to things like this – where he's stuck looking like he's fallen into a fatal coma with his eyes open. It's the same thing in Binns' class, but he can keep himself awake with writing notes… And that method works for maybe half an hour. We've got ten minutes left for Dinner, and Pansy's still going strong.

I'm still not sure exactly why she finds it necessary to inform us of the ongoing drama in _absolutely everyone's_ lives. And how does she even _know?_ She knows the names of first year Hufflepuffs… I don't even know what the first year _Slytherins_ even _look like!_

"…already has them for Potter _and_ Weasley, and she's working on a new series for you, I think, Draco, or at least she was when we…"

Wait, what? Rumors that mention me, Pothead, and the Weasel are not uncommon, but they hardly end pleasantly. And who is this 'she'? Granger?

I caught Pansy's eye and furrowed my brow. She stopped and cocked her head to the side. I squinted. She frowned. I glanced at Blaise – this little interlude seemed to have roused him from his stupor. About time, too, since we'll be leaving for the Common Room in just a few minutes. I turned my gaze back to Pansy, and she seemed uncomfortable.

"What, Drake?" She asked. Her nails were still embedded somewhere in the bone marrow of my upper arm, but she pulled away slightly in order to look directly in my eyes without bumping her forehead on my chin.

"What was that about Weasley and Potter?" She frowned, annoyed to find that I had obviously not been paying attention to her.

"Romilda's made sets of fan stuff of them." At the look on my face – which was one of disgust and confusion, with some amusement, I suppose – she continued. "She's got buttons, shirts, hats, and scarves with their faces on them, plush dolls of them, and posters. I think she's even made those little moving figurines, like the ones you could get of Krum at the Quidditch World Cup. Her house elves make the stuff that she can't transfigure or charm herself."

"Seriously? Romilda Vane? She must be mental." That was Blaise, who had apparently woken up enough to participate in human interaction. Good for him.

Pansy looked delighted that her gossip had paid off in the form of conversation, and responded with enthusiasm. "Maybe, but it's also brilliant. There's lots of girls with crushes on those two, especially in the younger years, so she's selling these things at an amazing profit. I thought about maybe buying one of the moving figurines, so I could practice charms on it, but it was like forty galleons."

"You should get one." Blaise, who had been looking at Pansy mutinously, seemed surprised that I agreed. "When you're done with it, I could give it to the beaters in Quidditch, to practice their aim with."

Pansy gave a little giggle, and Crabbe – who had started listening sometime around the word "Quidditch", I presume – let out a low snort.

"Anyway," Pansy said. "I told her no deal and she asked for me to try to advertise to the other girls in Slytherin. She's doing a whole line of this stuff for various famous and attractive wizards. She says Potter and Weasley don't know about it yet, but I guess it's just a matter of time – her biggest client base is in Gryffindor, after all."

Goyle spoke up in a low, dull tone. "Not going to like that."

Crabbe corroborated, saying, "At all."

"That's not all, though," Pansy said, now frowning at me. "Like I said, Draco, she wants to do a series of stuff of _you._"

Oh… Oh, fuck no.

I mentioned the rumors, right? The sexual rumors? I do not want to think about what "lots of girls", "especially in the younger years", would do with a six inch high replica of, you know, _me._ It should be flattering, but that is completely overridden by how very, very creepy it is.

Next to me, Blaise in convulsing with what he'd better hope is _not_ laughter.

"Pansy," My voice is flat. "When is she going to start selling the… merchandise?"

"I'm not sure… Could be anytime in the next week."

It's Friday. At best, I have until _next_ Friday, and at worst… I only have 2 days to convince Romilda Vane not to sell me out. "And you didn't think to tell me about this sooner?"

Pansy scowled at me. "For your information, I only found out about Romilda's business right before dinner." Her expression screamed, '_You would know that if you had been listening to me.'_

A voice came from further down the table, and I turned, looking directly at Daphne Greengrass's somewhat curious expression.

"Romilda's business? Ooh, are you talking about her wizards' fans products?" She asked. She seemed doubtless, which proved to me that she had been listening longer than she let on. Nosey bint.

"Yeah, Malfoy's getting cast as a character in her puppet show." Yeah, fuck you, Blaise.

Daphne looked confused, and then the cogs in her brain ever so slowly connected the dots, and she was elated. "Really, Draco?! Oh, I can't wait! I bought both of the figurines, so she gave me a discount. I wonder if she'll let me get yours for a reduced price, too!"

Blaise snickered next to me and I wanted to punch him.

Malfoys are not sale items. We're haute couture, _not_ the bargain bin! I had better cost _twice _as much as those knuckle heads, and be at least an _inch _taller!

_Why am I even thinking about this?! She must be stopped!_

"Ooh, do you have them with you?" Pansy, no-

"Yeah, I just bought them!" Oh, fuck you, too, Pansy.

Daphne reached into her schoolbag and seemed to be groping around inside it – her arm disappeared farther into the bag than it appeared it should have been able to – but stopped when we realized we were a bit behind the rest of our house and needed to hurry the fuck up and leave.

"I'll show you in the common room!" She announced cheerfully, then stood and I swear to every deity that's listening that she skipped the hell out. Frolicked, even. She's bloody mental. All of the girls in the school are mental.

Speaking of which, Pansy latched back onto my arm for the walk back to the Dungeons, and with Blaise at my side, and Crabbe and Goyle behind us, we did like Slytherins do and glided on out.

* * *

While I have a minute, maybe I should explain something. I haven't been completely honest with you, you see, and that's starting to get to me, you know?

This, you know, this _thing_. This story thing. I'm not actually writing it. (Can you tell? I can't imagine I'd be a very good writer. They say good readers make good writers and quite honestly I haven't read anything other than a textbook since maybe second year. You don't need literature to be a wizard, you just need spells and potion recipes, and, well, magical blood. A_hem_.)

_This_? This isn't just shits and giggles. This is practice.

See, what I did was that I found a book in the library, and that book had a spell for recording thoughts for a pensieve, and for means other than a pensieve. So this is like a pensieve, basically, in a way. The things that I'm thinking, the things I hear and see and notice, all get recorded on parchment by a quill that I cast this spell on. This is a practice, and a safe guard, for my greater goal. I figured that since these are some pretty goddamned exciting times, I might as well record my side of things, so that years from now, people will remember _my_ words. I doubt anyone else in this school is using this spell, so it will be _my_ record that is highly credible.

This war will not be forgotten. There are already scores of books about the Dark Lord and Potter, and there will be hundreds more. Mine will be an in-the-moment, eye witness account. My testimony will be revealing and revolutionary.

My name will be immortal.

* * *

So after dinner for the first hour or so, we forgot about the dolls that were probably squirming about somewhere in Daphne's purse, crushed under a pair of high heels or whatever it is that she carries in that "book" bag of hers. We just lounged in the high backed leather chairs in the common room – near the fire, since we were nearly the oldest, and entitled to kick the first years out of those seats if we felt like it – just sort of bumming around, like we do. Blaise had a book and some parchment in his lap… Hopefully that essay he's scribbling away at isn't for transfiguration. God only knows what kind of ass-kicking he'd get from McGonagall if he turned in something _that_ shabby to that crony old witch. Pansy sat halfway in my lap, with her arms still in a death grip around my arm, her head on my shoulder, and one of her legs draped comfortably over one of mine. She was prattling on about something, maybe. ("Oh, Draco, did I tell you? I found out that my house was built on an ancient burial ground, and now Mother's having the whole manor cleansed. She and Father aren't even _sleeping_ at home, they've gone to Diagon Alley for a few weeks – Draco, are you listening to me?")

It wasn't until close to nine-thirty that Daphne realized _with a sudden bolt of self-awareness_ that she still hadn't shown us her new toys. So she grabbed that big ridiculous bag and stuffed her entire arm and her _head_ in it, did the smart thing, and accio'd those suckers. She emerged from her voyage into the inside of her bag, with two small, wriggling figures.

Shit, its Weasley and Potter. It's not even just a little male figure with black hair and glasses and a scar, its _really_ Potter. They're each about six inches tall, maybe, and correctly proportioned, which is just big enough for you to see how _insanely detailed_ she made them.

Have I not said before that Romilda is mental? She must be bloody mental. Who has time to do this sort of thing? Really?

Daphne put them down on the low table in the middle of our chairs and they started looking around curiously. The little Weasel scratched his head, even.

"They're charmed to be life-like," Daphne said. "But not to act toward us the way they usually would. They're just curious and they don't know anything, like children."

Pansy got up and sat on the floor close to the table. The two mini Gryffindors looked at her, and at her smile, started wandering over to her.

"They really _don't_ recognize you, Pans." Blaise said, smirking. "Otherwise they'd be running like hell."

They stopped, and swiveled around to look at Blaise.

…The fuck?

He frowned, too. "They heard me?"

"Of course." Daphne answered, looking a bit smug. Tch. It's not like _she_ made these little monstrosities. She just _bought_ them. "They can see, hear, feel… They also talk."

Pansy reached forward and prodded the Weasel in the stomach, hard. It – he – was knocked over, and sure enough he let out a tiny, indignant, "Ow! Bloody hell!"

The fucking doll even had Weasel's _voice._

Little Potter wandered over and helped little Weasley up. Mini friends already. What a surprise.

Millicent Bulstrode – who had been upstairs – came over and leaned over the top of Blaise's chair. She and Blaise are related, somehow, and anyway, they get along very well. They don't look at all alike, but from the way they act, you'd think they were siblings. They pretty much grew up together. Well, then again, all of us were fairly well acquainted before we got to first year…

"Whose figurines?" She asked. Her voice was low, for a girl, and rough. She's built sort of like Goyle – tall, stocky, a bit shapeless, but muscular – except for the obvious fact that she has, you know, _cleavage._

"Mine!" Said Daphne, who had joined Pansy on the floor. "I got them from Romilda Vane for a discount, because I bought two, and she's also selling -"

"I know. I bought a Potter." And suddenly, six pairs of eyes locked on her with expressions that ranged from horror to amusement.

"Did you really, Millie?" Blaise craned his neck back to look up at her. She nodded, then crossed the room to the wall by the fireplace, where we had all unceremoniously dumped our bags. From her beat up canvas bag, she drew out yet another small figure, flailing its arms and kicking its legs.

And then there were three.

The new Potter was set down a bit away from the other Potter, but they definitely seemed to recognize each other. They ended up coming together and standing in a sort of triangle – both Potters facing each other, and Weasley to the side, between them, looking back and forth in confusion.

We went quiet and listened to their little conversation.

"Bloody hell…" The Weasel. Second time its said that. She must had even charmed their mannerisms into these creepy little things, which only makes them all the more _creepy._

"Are you, me?" One of the Potters. Daphne's. The other Potter looked a bit cornered.

"I.. I don't know. Maybe you're me. Maybe we just happen to be identical."

Weasley scoffed. "Right, like _that's_ likely." Both of the Potters look a bit annoyed at him. He glanced between them again and shrugged. "Well, if you're Harry Potter," he said, addressing Daphne's. "Then who are you?"

Millicent's Potter frowned. "I'm Harry Potter."

Oh, this is way too surreal.

Pansy crossed her arms on the table and rested her chin on top of them. "You're both Harry Potter."

All three of them look at her in surprise, and one of the Potters took a step forward. "But, how? How are there _two_ of us?"

Pansy shrugs. "Don't worry about it."

"What I'm wondering is…" The girls and Blaise turn to look at me. "…How are they recognizing each other? I thought they weren't supposed to know anyone."

A puzzlement.

"Oh!" Yes, Pansy? "Right! Um, they don't recognize _humans._ They only recognize the other dolls."

We all regarded the dolls, who were sitting together in a small circle, talking in quiet voices. They were intricate enough just based on how detailed they looked, but we were only slowly recognizing how complicated they _really_ were.

Millicent collected her Potter and Daphne put her dolls back in her bag. Their little indignant voices were the only noises until Blaise started scratching at his paper again. Pansy reclaimed her spot at my side and took up her speech again, until we all dispersed for bed.

* * *

So. Romilda Vane.

She's mental, but we've been over that already.

She's also _hot._

Romilda Vane would be the most desirable girl in the school if she weren't so very obvious about something not-so-attractive. She's had her knickers in a twist for Potter since her first year. It's disheartening, it really is, that a girl like that is wasted on Potter. She's got a body that makes you care about curves, and I mean all of them. I got distracted once in History – which is all too easy, understand? – and found myself imagining the curve of her neck. Her _neck._

But its like I said, her crush on Potter is a big smelly turn off. She's a lot like Pansy, except that she is less subtle and more obsessed (which, honestly, frightens me).

I mean, these dolls. They're fucking nuts, okay? She must have taken samples of their hair for really complicated potions to get the appearances and voices right, and the spells and charms just to make them move independently – to _think_ independently. I'm in classes with her and I know she's not the brightest of the bunch, but this clearly shows what some real self-application can do. Even _Granger_ would have to be impressed at the amount of work she's putting in.

Third mention of Granger in four pages. Or, no, fourth. Huh.

It's actually quite interesting to watch the quill scribble as I'm thinking. I can't help but feel a little, you know, proud of myself. So maybe there's some random tense changes and, okay, there's definitely going to be some problems with grammar… I suppose I should have thought ahead enough to use a self-correcting quill. Well, next time.

Oh.

Right, I've remembered something (something other than the fact that I just completely derailed my train of thought) that I needed to do. There's another spell I wanted to try out, I'm only hoping it'll, you know, work, since it's a bit tricky. You know the Weasleys' Extendable Ears? Well, the spell they used is, ah, related. I'm going to have to combine two spells – which is _not_ easy, and requires a bit of complex arithmancy.

Basically what's going to happen, or what's supposed to happen, is that one of my eyes is going to leave my body - the sensation is considered painless, so I'm not _too_ nervous - and that eye is going to be able to see and hear and move on its own. Then it's a simple matter of connecting what that eye sees to a quill, a different one from the one that's connected to me, and letting that quill write the eye's observations in third person or some such nonsense. The last spell vanishes the eye and has it reappear somewhere else, like the vanishing cabinet, or apparition. Supposedly, though, just sending the eye should work on Hogwarts grounds, even with the wards...

Supposedly.

I'd really rather not splinch my eye, particularly if it's somewhere I can't reach it, but all in the name of experimentation, right?

Right...

In continuing with the idea of this being a manuscript, I'm going to have the second quill write in this paper, just under this.

So, for a moment I'm just going to have to disconnect the one that's writi

* * *

**New chapter will be posted in about a week or so, I already have it planned out and started.**

**How was the length? Too long? Too short? How about the pacing? How obvious is it that I dislike Pansy-bashing? Any concrit is appreciated. The pairing will probably end up being HGDM… Opinions?**

**Until next time, please and thank you for reviews!**

_**Godzilla**_


	2. Arc 1: Proactive Intervention

_Rated T for profanity and possible mild graphic content._

_All copyrighted material belongs to people who are not me. JK Rowling, for the most part. _

_Inspiration (and more than a few lines) drawn from Glen Duncan's _I, Lucifer.

_This story is set in the 6__th__ year, and therefore disregards the final two books._

_Enjoy._

* * *

_**A Trifle

* * *

**_

**2.**

The Gryffindor Common room has yet to be drained of a few straggling older students. These people are positioned comfortably in softest chairs and couches near the fire, asleep or close to it, or else bent over piles of paper and writing furiously. Two of the first category sit with one of the latter category in a small cluster near neither the stairs nor the door. The first two are male, and they are sprawled over (1.) a loveseat and (2.) an armchair. The female sits on the floor, with her attention on nothing more or less than the notes and papers assembled on the low coffee table in front of her. There are discarded books around the seats of the males.

The female is the bushy haired Hermione Granger, and the two boys are (1.) Ronald Weasley and (2.) Harry Potter.

Ronald Weasley snores quietly but Hermione Granger does not seem to notice, until another male (of the studying variety) bids goodnight to her. This male is Neville Longbottom.

"Goodnight, Hermione," he whispers. He is maybe 10 feet from her, close to the stairs, but because it is otherwise silent, she hears him. She looks up and momentarily appears startled, then relieved, then friendly.

"I take it you finished your Potions essay, Neville?" The boy appears grateful. Dean Thomas passes behind him, up the stairs, nodding and possibly mumbling 'goodnight'.

"Yeah, I did. Thank you so much for explaining about the different breeds of dragons' scales, earlier -" She waves away his words with an off handed motion.

"It was no trouble. After all, you took your own notes, it isn't your fault Snape took them up."

The boy turns a bit pink, and scratches his neck uncomfortably. "Well, it… Well… Thanks anyway, Hermione. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Neville."

When he is gone, she frowns. Without the sound of another quill, she appears to realize that she is the last remaining Gryffindor awake, and that it is well past midnight. Her arithmancy report is not done, but the rough draft next to it (one of ten) is almost identical, and the due date (written neatly and circled in her open planner) is weeks away. She takes a moment to roll her shoulders before she stands and slowly collects her things, then stops and stares at the two males. They have not woken. She looks at one, then the other, seeming to assess them both, before shrugging lightly and going up the stairs to her dorm.

Up the stairs – after Hermione Granger – and into the 6th year girls' dorm. The stairwell is a wide spiral, and not at all decorated. The dorm is simplistic, with a pattern of bed-window-bed-window leading around the room. There is a girl in every bed but one.

Beside the beds, there are bedside tables. On the tables of Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, there are small human shapes. Both tables have small figures resembling Harry Potter, and Lavender Brown has a small figure resembling Ronald Weasley. The figures are lying down, sleeping, sprawled in the same positions as their life sized counter parts downstairs.

The small Ronald Weasley emits small snores.

Hermione Granger stands with a surprised expression on her face, staring at the figures in much the same way as she observed the real people before. She steps closer to the figures, seems to realize something, then steps away. She smiles wickedly.

"Romilda Vane's new toys…" She says. "The boys are in for a surprise tomorrow."

Hermione Granger lowers her bag to the floor beside her bed, takes pajamas from out of her trunk, and disappears behind the curtains of her four poster bed.

* * *

And just like that my eye was back in my head. It wasn't comfortable for it to be gone, mind you. It didn't _hurt_, maybe, but my eye lids felt sunken in and I could feel air _inside my eye socket_. Air is good – even necessary – in a great many places. But not in my eye socket. Please, no. _Ugh._

It wasn't a failure, though. I mean, sure, the eye might have had the most dry, monotonous writing style _ever_ (They say eyes are windows to the soul. Just windows. No wonder it didn't have any… _oomph._ Any _spice._) but it got the job done. And it's a good thing that the eye appeared near Granger and Weasley and Potter – and that it decided to follow Granger.

Wizarding spy techniques are ever so efficient, wouldn't you say?

I can't believe Saint Potter and his trusty sidekick haven't found out about those stupid dolls yet. Pansy made it sound like Romilda's been selling them for a couple of days already… Are they blind, or just morons? Right… It's Potter and Weasley. They're blind… _And_ deaf _and_ dumb.

I'll have to try this again tomorrow. Until then, goodnight.

* * *

I was going to wait to restart the quill until after breakfast, but I would be lying if I said I wasn't excited to see Potter and Weasley lose their shit over some six inch figurines. I hope Granger tells them at breakfast.

Of course, as soon as I got to the Slytherin Common room, Pansy rose from her chair and approached me. It was only eight – far too early for a Saturday – but she wakes up at the crack of dawn every morning to do a set of make-up spells in front of a large, ornate, highly complimentary mirror in the common room. I know because one time I woke up even before her and she came downstairs with her hair disheveled and her eyes blood shot and baggy. Then, when she saw me, she burst into tears and ran back upstairs. She wouldn't even talk to me until I pulled her aside before dinner and told her she was lovely, even without her beauty charms. (And would you believe it? She burst into tears _again_ and then launched herself at me. It's like I keep saying. The girls in this nuthouse are _absolutely out of their ever-loving minds._)

Anyway, so Pansy walks over to me and she goes, "What are you going to do about the dolls?"

And really, what better way to start my morning? Thanks, Pans. You're the best.

"I don't know." I grumbled sourly, started walking toward the Common Room's exit. "Jelly-Brain Jinx?"

Pansy laughed derisively before following me out into the dungeons. "That might work for a while, but honestly, what's going to keep her from making and releasing Draco Malfoy merchandise?"

This was the question I had no answer for, simply because I had been strenuously avoiding thinking about it.

Bribery wouldn't work, because she could potentially earn more money from selling the stupid things than she would from a lump sum. Threats, I've found, are ineffectual on Gryffindors – especially _stupid_ Gryffindors (with the exception of Longbottom, he takes threats very appropriately). No time for coercion and I would die before I begged. I can't appeal to her Gryffindor sense of goodwill, since, after all, I'm Draco Malfoy. Their generosity can't and won't extend to me.

Then there are the subtler arts… I could sabotage the dolls, but I would need to know how she makes them, and where, and what sort of security spells she uses. I can't try to buy out her stocks, or have someone buy her out for me, because she makes them herself.

By this point we were already approaching the open doors of the mostly-empty Great Hall. Surprisingly, the whole way there, Pansy had not said a word. She turned to look at me as I emerged from my thoughts.

"What would you do?" I asked, as we took our seats at the end closest to the doors. She sat opposite of me, and I sat facing the other tables.

Pansy shrugged, but continued to watch me, like she was sizing me up or trying to decide something. "I would talk to her. Maybe offer to help her increase production and efficiency as long as she picked someone else for the model." This wasn't a bad idea. "But I'm not you. Romilda might accept that sort of deal from me, but you might not be so lucky."

"That doesn't sound like you're offering."

"I'm not." She said it flatly, and I knew what would come next. "No incentive for me."

Pansy does not need money. She doesn't want help with her schoolwork – she's maybe eighteenth in rank, and I am second, but she has made it quite clear where exactly my 'help' can go – and we're already 'dating' so it's not like she needs to bribe me to go somewhere with her or buy her something.

Romilda, however – and this was surely Pansy's real meaning – would maybe accept a deal if I promised her something else to sweeten the deal.

"Thanks, Pansy." I said, with a smirk. She smiled back sardonically, and then we both heard loud voices coming from outside the hall.

I turned to the doors and who should I see but the glorious Saint Potter and King Weasel looking as dignified as they are intelligent (har har). Their eyes landed on Romilda Vane and her fourth year groupies. I couldn't see around the girls who had their backs to me, but it doesn't take a genius to guess what was on the table. Potter and Weasley – the only boys awake in Gryffindor house so far, apparently – strode over to the table and sat down near the middle. They immediately started talking in low, fast voices, while frequently shooting angry looks at the girls further down the table. Their expressions gave away their ill-contained rage and blatant embarrassment.

That will _not_ be me. It's quite clear that I can't let Romilda use me for her enterprise, and anyway, I _would_ like to know how she got samples of their genetic code for the appearances of the dolls.

The girl really could be a Slytherin. This whole thing reeks of devious planning and subterfuge.

Then Granger walked in, alone, and stopped a few feet from her table. She looked at Potter and Weasley – who were looking at her with identical expressions of tight lipped, wide eyed pleading – and then at the 4th year entrepreneurs. She seemed to be evaluating each of them as she (very deliberately) nonchalantly walked over to the girls and took a seat beside one on the opposite side of Romilda herself.

Oh, this is rich. This is better than I could have expected. The terrible twosome had _clearly_ begged Granger to solve their problems for them, and now she was sitting with maybe five fourth years.

The younger girls looked like they were stunned into silence, except for Romilda – who was very obviously amused as hell. She had a little smug smirk on her face and oh _man_ I wish I could hear what Granger was saying. Whatever it was, it made Romilda laugh cheekily. Granger, for that matter, looked irritated. The other girls were still human statues but Romilda – at least from here – didn't look the least bit intimidated.

Man, I wish I were close enough to that conversation so I could hear it without having to make all of these pretentious observations.

Pansy nudged me in the side, and said, "Supersensory Charm."

Who says she isn't smart? The girl has common sense, at least, even if her spell work could use some work. Or maybe she's damn good at nonverbal, wandless Legilimency?

So I cast the charm over myself and Pansy and she cast Silencio on some first years Ravenclaws who were giggling obnoxiously. Luckily there weren't too many people in the Great Hall yet, and I was able to focus on Granger's voice easily.

"…just that, well, neither of them really _needs_ this right now. Especially Harry. He gets enough grief from the Prophet every time he sneezes the wrong way, and Hogwarts is one of the only places in the wizarding world where there aren't full-grown wizards coming over and asking for his autograph, you know?"

This seemed to strike a chord with Romilda, who looked over at the Boy Wonder. Her brow creased slightly, then straightened out as she turned back to Hermione with resolve in her eyes.

"Making shirts and dolls of him isn't _hurting_ him. Even if I didn't sell them, all of the same girls would have crushes on him. Now they have an outlet. Would it really be better for all of those girls to be vying for the attention of the real thing?"

"But Romilda," Granger said softly. Clearly the younger girl wasn't talking about the other fans. She meant herself – wouldn't it be better for her to sell dolls to the other girls than to put her energy into trying to use magic to win over the hero? "Having a figurine, or a scarf, or a shirt, or a poster… It isn't the same, is it? It's not a replacement. It's just encouragement… for the girls."

Romilda stood abruptly. Her face was red from anger and embarrassment, and she spoke loudly – loud enough that I would have heard her without the charm. "That isn't any business of yours, _Hermione._ You _have_ the real thing. What would _you_ know?"

And when she stormed out, it was silent.

I waited a moment, staring at Granger's guilty expression, before muttering "Finite Incantatem." and turning to Pansy.

She was staring at – Weasley and Potter! I recast the charm on myself as Granger sat down with them.

"…for now, and maybe later on we can ask her to stop. It's harmless after all, so just try to be patient and react gracefully when you see girls wearing Harry Potter winter hats and coats." Weasel's face screwed up at 'react gracefully'.

"But, Hermione, are you suggesting we let this continue for – for how long? Weeks? Months? What if she decides to make this a real business and keeps it up for years?" I imagined a store in Diagon Alley with hundreds of little Harry Potter faces peering out of the store window. Potters and Weasleys (and Malfoys – _NO!_) in different outfits and sizes, with miniature Nimbus 2001's and Firebolts and Cleansweep 7's. Potter blanched, and Weasley looked a bit ill – maybe they were imagining the same thing.

"Of course not," Granger said, with a bit of a scolding tone. "There are only so many girls in this school, so once business winds down, there will be less incentive for her to keep selling. Then, we can approach her with a deal of some sort."

Potter frowned at this. "But, what could we offer her? Obviously she wouldn't need money. From what you told us, this is a fairly lucrative business."

Granger seemed to laugh at her own thought, then said with a smile that was positively devilish, "Maybe you could offer to take her to Madam Puddifoot's."

Weasley laughed – sending pancake flying back onto his plate – and Potter looked at her sourly while he scooped up some eggs. Across from me, Pansy's hand groped behind her for a bagel and a knife, but she didn't look away.

"I'm not sure that would work." Potter grumbled, before taking a bite of his eggs. "Afterwards she would probably start selling Harry Potter _voodoo_ dolls, just to get back at me."

After a loud gulp, Weasley looked directly at Granger. "I think you need to sort her out about Harry, 'Mione."

Granger nodded distractedly, but her face turned guilty and thoughtful again. She accidentally speared the toast she was buttering. "I don't feel too hungry." She said as she pulled the knife out and set it and the bread down.

Weasley and Potter both looked at her sadly. "Don't let what she said get to you." Potter said, reaching for her hand. "You're my friend – _our_ friend – and you aren't obligated to justify that to anyone." She nodded again, but stood anyway, rubbing a hand over one of her eyes.

"Thanks Harry. I think I just, um," She rubbed her eyes again. "I think I woke up too early. I'm going to go try to like back down for a little while."

She walked out quickly, and Weasley waited maybe ten seconds before turning to Potter with a grin and saying, "Quidditch practice tomorrow, right?"

"Finite Incantatem." Pansy was turned back toward me, and had a half eaten bagel in one hand.

I shook my head, muttering, "Finite Incantatem", and reached for the pitcher of coffee to fill my mug. "They're cheerier than they have a right to be at eight-thirty on a Saturday morning."

Pansy nodded, not meeting my eyes while she poured orange juice for herself. "But it helps to know what they're going to do about the dolls."

"As in, nothing?"

"Nothing for now." She clarified. "_You_ can't wait. _You_ need to get to work on preventative measures long before you're at the stage that they are. Their dolls have already been sold to dozens of girls, and now that those two know, I expect an explosion of sales. _Now_ she doesn't have to hide the operation, so she can advertise through better means than word of mouth."

Pansy was right, of course. I wondered what kind of tactics Romilda would use – paper plane memos? Bulletins in the girls' dorms in every house? Or maybe she would just cart the dolls around openly to attract buyers…

"Draco?" I looked up at Pansy, who was doing that thing where she seems like she's grading me with her eyes or something. "Why are you so opposed to the dolls, anyway?"

"Because they're embarrassing," I said, holding up one finger to signal that that was the first reason of many. "They're creepy; they give my, ah, enemies the perfect means of humiliating me; they give the girls who believe I'm a sex fiend a freakish _toy_ to play with; and, they put me in a group with Potter and Weasley."

Five reasons. I felt justified.

"But it's fan merchandise of 'famous and attractive wizards'," Pansy said. "That's flattering, isn't it? Not embarrassing. And they'll look just like you, it's not as if she's made them disfigured."

"Well, it's more that they have potential _for_ embarrassment. Like having little first years carrying them around -"

"Little first years who already think you're hot enough to throw away 40 galleons for a six inch imitation."

Goddamn, she has a point. Well, four reasons.

"They're creepy, though. She puts _way_ too much effort into making them realistic."

"Would it really be better to have just a rag doll with your face on it? At least they'll act like you, so you can bet the dolls will be snarky and arrogant to their owners. The buyers can't just charm them into doing their bidding, or acting out some twelve year old's fantasy."

That just... _Fuck_, that just efficiently canceled about three of my points. Still in a group with –

Pansy continued. "And Potter and Weasley won't be the only ones. You can expect Viktor Krum, all seven members of the Weird Sisters, some professional Quidditch players and other musicians. _Celebrities. _Not such a bad group to be in, wouldn't you say?"

"Pansy, _why_ are you trying to convince me to accept the dolls?" I was exasperated and out of reasons, but never defeated.

She frowned at me. "I'm _not_. You just have to be ready to argue your opinion with Romilda, and be prepared to deal with the dolls anyway in case she says no deal. Granger was right about one thing – you have to react _gracefully._ Even if Potter and Weasley don't."

"Yeah, mate." Blaise settled into the seat next to me, grinning wolfishly. "You're _Draco Malfoy._ You can't just get into a screaming fight in the Great Hall. We're Slytherins, not mental patients."

"So, do _you_ think I should just let her make the stupid dolls?"

The bastard shrugged, reaching for a bagel. "I would. It's not even that big of a deal, you're getting into crisis mode for no reason." Yeah, Pansy took away all of my reasons. "So what if some girls carry around little blond monstrosities? No skin off your nose, as they say."

"Who says that?" He shrugged again.

"Muggle saying, forget about it." The things that he learns in Muggle Studies... I've gotten over my initial shock that he was even taking the class, but none of the things he derived from that class made any sense at all. (Example? _Microwaves._) Blaise looked at me levelly, with a small frown. "If you really want to keep Romilda from selling the dolls, you need to do something about it _today._"

I keep hearing that. "She just got in a fight with Granger, though."

"Yeah, and?" Normally, I would be the inconsiderate one between the two of us, in any situation. I stared at him for a moment and he continued. "What are you, a Hufflepuff? Use it to your advantage. Tell her you'll help her get back at Granger if she agrees to cease and desist production of the Malfoy fan toy."

No more creepy dolls, and I get to help make Granger's life hell? Sounds like a win-win situation. Hopefully Romilda will agree.

I sighed and stood, muttering, "Wish me luck."

As I headed for the doors, Pansy called, "Good luck!" while Blaise yelled equally cheerfully, "Don't be a dick!"

And then I made my way toward Gryffindor tower.

* * *

Now, generally, students aren't supposed to know where the other houses' common room are, or the entrances. (And certainly not the passwords.) For instance, Slytherin's entrance is known to be in the dungeons, but most people don't know exactly _where_ in the dungeons.

I mean, the areas under the school are as expansive as the school itself, or larger. They extend out below the lake and the Quidditch pitch, at some points hundreds of feet below the earth. A lot of those areas are sealed off with impressive wards or passwords, some are impossible to get to without apparition (which, as you know, isn't possible on Hogwarts grounds), and anyway, they're all jinxed and cursed. Ask any first year how obnoxious it is to be stuck on a moving staircase, then think what that would be like if you're wandering around in a dark, cold, stone tunnel, and when you turn to find your way back, there's a wall where there used to be a fork, and you have no idea where you _actually_ are.

It's things like the dungeons that put Hogwarts on par with Gringotts in terms of ridiculous security measures. For example, there's a corridor a little ways south of the entrance to the Slytherin Common room that just _wants_ you to get lost and die in it. It's a box, basically – you walk to the end, turn, walk to the end, turn, walk to the end, turn, walk to the end, and you're back where you started. However, you don't_ realize_ it, because the corridor puts an illusion over the entrance to the track, and the hall changes just slightly every time. Walking through it, you get the impression you're walking longer and shorter distances, even though it is, or nearly is, a square.

Sometimes we send first years in there, and then Snape is sent to find them once they've missed a meal or a class. Rumor has it that a few hundred years ago, some kid got stuck in there just before the trains left for Christmas vacation, and no one found him (or her) until the start of the next term.

…

I'm, uh. I'm going to stop now. It sounds like I'm reciting passages from _Hogwarts: A History_, which I _swear_ I only read once.

Also, I'm horribly off track of my original line of thought: the other houses' common rooms, and their locations.

I know where Gryffindor common room is. Fifth year. Long story. Not a happy ending. Regardless, I know where it is, and which portrait is the entrance.

So I went there.

* * *

Romilda was exiting the portrait hole as I was walking up the stairs. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she was biting her lip. She kept her head down until she was just a few steps above me, and when she saw me, she glared and tensed immediately.

"The hell are you looking at, Malfoy?" She spat, looking slightly embarrassed at being caught crying (but mostly, just pissed).

I sighed. "Put the claws away, Vane. I just wanted to talk to you."

Her expression was distrustful. "Oh yeah? About what?"

"The dolls, Vane." I stepped to the side and up, so I was standing two steps below… at eye level with her. "The toys you've been making and selling? The, uh… The fan merchandise?"

Now, she smirked, and crossed her arms over her chest. "Interested in buying a Harry to play dress-up with? Or do you just want to submit a compliment on the product quality?"

I rolled my eyes. This girl's arrogant, and a little _bitch_, too. "Neither, actually. Parkinson told me I was the next subject on your list, and I was hoping I could persuade you to-"

The little bitch _laughed._ "Oh, is that right? You came up here to _persuade_ me to, I'm guessing, _not_ make you into a six inch plaything?" It sounds especially creepy when she described it as a plaything, and my scowl must have been obvious to her. "Oh, please, Malfoy, don't pout, it's not a good look for you. Tell me, what were you going to offer me, in return for giving up hundreds of galleons, potentially, to preserve your reputation?"

Dirty little… Narrowing my eyes at her, I used Pansy and Blaise's suggestions. "I would help increase production, maybe help with some of the spell work. I heard you use house elves to make some of your products, and I _know_ I have a larger personal staff of elves than you have in your whole house." She seemed unenthused but thankfully not offended. "And maybe… I could help you make a statement to Granger."

This caught her off guard. There was an angry blush high in her cheeks suddenly. "What the hell are you saying, Malfoy?"

"I know you argued with her this morning." I said quietly. "Parkinson and I were both at breakfast early, and anyone there would have heard your little declaration. All I'm offering is a way to make her as upset as you've been, all this time."

She almost looked like she was considering it, and then her expression twisted in berserk anger and torment. "Don't presume to know _anything_ about me, Malfoy! You don't know _anything_! All you care about is what's best for _you_, that's all that matters to you! You only have to worry about and depend on _you!_ So _shut up!_"

I took a step back against the stair rail, and was silent while she breathed harshly and tried not to cry. I took another step, down stairs, and then turned and took another, and just before I reached the bottom of the stairs I heard "Petrificus Totalus!" and I landed on my face.

"I was going to wait to do this," Romilda said, standing somewhere behind me. "But you already know, so I might as well."

Then she cast stupefy, and everything faded through red to black.

* * *

**Posted earlier than I said I would, but I'm going to work on a 'Friday = Deadline' basis, and if I can post a chapter sooner, I will.**

**Also, I know this chapter is a little shorter - is that alright? I aim for around 5,000 words per chapter. I'll try to keep the chapter lengths consistent, at least.**

**A million thanks to Kermita, TJHPFanatic, and GryphonWonder14. There's no better feeling than receiving positive feedback for something you work really hard on, you know? And nothing more encouraging, either! Thanks so much!**

**Until next time, please and thank you for reading and reviewing!**

**_Godzilla_**


	3. Arc 1: Spells and a Dilemma

_Rated T for profanity and possible mild graphic content._

_All copyrighted material belongs to people who are not me. JK Rowling, for the most part. _

_Inspiration (and more than a few lines) drawn from Glen Duncan's _I, Lucifer.

_This story is set in the 6__th__ year, and therefore disregards the final two books._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**A Trifle**

* * *

**3.**

I woke to a voice muttering "Rennervate," and found myself in a loo.

A loo – a girl's loo, based on the slightly perfumed smell – that was so fantastically large, it laughed in the face of common sense and propriety. The ceiling must have been at least seventy feet above me, and the sink, which I was apparently laying in, was large enough to be maybe two-thirds the size of the prefects' bathroom's tub. The faucet was some fifteen feet above my head (which was resting uncomfortably on dry porcelain).

And I couldn't move. Not like the "tied-down-tightly" variety, but more like the "my-muscles-aren't-responding-to-my-brain" type, which was arguably more alarming.

Then Romilda Vane's face blocked my vision of the ceiling. All of it. And the tip of her nose was still maybe ten feet above the humongous sink faucet, which meant her face must have spanned maybe thirty or forty –

"You're tiny." She said, _far_ more loudly than she needed to have. "About six inches high."

I couldn't even raise my hands to cover my ears. I couldn't even open my mouth to call her a psycho.

She reached into the sink and (thankfully gently) picked me up with her big, stupid, fat – no, _gigantic_ – hand. She pulled me ten feet up, and set me down on the edge of the sink, deliberately posing me hunched over, with my elbows on my knees to keep me upright. She pointed her wand at me and muttered a spell for bone strengthening that healers use on old witches with low bone density – and then muttered it several more times, and I wondered exactly how fragile she thinks I am.

Well, I suppose if I am, in fact, six inches high, that I _must_ be pretty breakable.

I think I'm taking this rather well, wouldn't you say?

While she muttered skin thickening spells and cushioning charms, I observed that I was in a nondescript Hogwarts bathroom. It's not Moaning Myrtle's lavatory, and it's not the lavatory on the first floor. It's "smaller", which makes me think fewer people are expected to use it, and I think that's a shower stall over –

"Malfoy, pay attention." Romilda said, still _entirely too loudly._ She frowned at me, then pointed her wand at the side of my head, and said, "Quietus Audite."

Thank _god._

"Now listen, Malfoy." She said, at a humanly acceptable volume. "I wanted you to watch this." She took a step back and aimed the wand at me. "_Geminio._"

And then, right in front of me, in the same seated position, with the same gelled back hair and pale skin and all of the same clothes, was me.

"_Geminio._"

And then there were three. And then she made more. I stopped counting after ten. When they wouldn't fit on or in the sink anymore, she stunned each copy and dropped them one by one into a large, draw-string sack. Then, she made more. She stopped once the sack was full, and no sooner. Then she swirled her wand over the top of the bag, saying "Obliviatus Maxima".

When she was done, she walked out of my sight and came back without the bag.

She smirked, then paced in front of me. "Draco, Draco, Draco… Did you know, that Geminio isn't meant to work on people?" I did know that, but I couldn't say so. She continued. "It's because Geminio works like reproducing a single-cell organism. Every cell makes a copy of itself and the copies exit the body to arrange together, within milliseconds, _hopefully_ in the right order. So it's advised not to be used on things that are complex, or terribly large, or _alive_.

"That's because when the spell is cast _once on a living organism, _the cells inside split and some particles invariably get caught up. They stay inside the original body. It's one of the few things that can cause malignant cancer in wizards – the misplaced cells start growing, inside the organism, making a tumor."

She was right, of course, and I knew all of this… but, Wizards almost never have to worry about dying from cancer, because we've got spells to locate the cancerous bodies and potions that only target unhealthy tissue.

"Then, when they go to get rid of the tumor," she continued, still casually pacing. "The potion identifies the tumor as being the same material the person is made from. The tumor isn't made of foreign cancer cells, you see, it's simply a lump of extra, misplaced tissue. So when the potion kills the tumor, it continues to kill the rest of the _original_ body because it recognizes every cell as a target. It's an effect that takes years to observe, if it happens at all, so it isn't very widely known. Unless, of course, if you've had it cast on you more than once. That would accelerate the effect, I suppose."

I cannot say this enough times. _Romilda Vane is_ _in-_fucking_-sane_. This is so much worse than I could have guessed. Now she has her stupid dolls, and I might be dying. If I go to St. Mungo's for a cure, I'll be killing myself. This bitch is going to make me choose between a long, painful death, and a shorter, self-induced, _extremely_ painful death – this has to be some kind of –

"That's what happens to things that are alive. Except, as I'm sure you've noticed, you can't move."

But I'm thinking, dumbass. And obviously you know that, or you wouldn't be talking to me, I_ hope_. Whatever happened to '_I think, therefore I am_'?

"Nothing about you is actually alive right now. Right now, you're a toy. I transfigured you into an inanimate object after I shrunk you and modified you." Modified? "However, I know from experience that you can hear me and see me. Somehow, you are thinking. You'll remember this whole thing unless I obliviate you."

Oh, that's just fucking great. She's going to give me brain damage from a memory charm on top of everything else – wait, experience…

Holy shit, Potter and Weasley.

Holy _shit_, she did this to Potter and Weasley. She must have obliviated them or else they would remember. If they did, they would have gotten her locked up _days_ ago.

"However, I don't think I _will_ obliviate you, you know. Not yet, I suppose… Who would believe you, anyway?" Well, Snape, for one thing. Dumbledore, hopefully. The doctors in the PSYCH ward at ST. MUNGO'S, _you CRAZY BITCH._ She let out a dainty little coquettish laugh. "I can just say it's a defect in the toy. Everyone will think you've run off to join the Death Eaters or something."

She tapped the tip of her wand on my head – it made a small, hollow, thumping noise – and said, "Finite Incantat_unam_" – end _one_ spell.

And suddenly I was made of real blood and guts again. My heart started hammering in my chest like those things Blaise told me about during the Muggle Medicine unit in Muggle Studies – the MIR or whatever, that big magnetic tunnel that takes pictures, going _wham wham wham wham wham wham _– and every inch of my arms and legs burned with an excruciating level of that pins and needles feeling you get as you blood starts moving. My head throbbed with my heart (_WHAM WHAM WHAM WHAM WHAM_), instantly creating the worst headache I could have ever imagined having. Every single one of my joints hurt, like I had spent the past twenty-four hours over-exercising every single muscle in my entire body and now they were all torn and abused. My skin _burned_. It hurt to breath, particularly as I was; gasping, heaving, and choking on air. It hurt to think. It hurt to _be alive._

When I opened my eyes (I had shut them tightly against the pain) and my vision slowly cleared, I could tell I was still six inches tall. I _could_ move, but when I so much as lifted my eye lids, it felt like sand paper rubbing against dried out coral, and the only thing that kept my eyes open was fear.

Romilda Vane is a fourth year Gryffindor, so normally, she wouldn't frighten me at all. Right now? Right now, she's about ten times my height or more, so yes, I'm a little bit _terrified_, thank you.

She was looking at me with an absolutely disgusting expression of curiosity. "Well? How do you feel?"

How do I _feel_? Ask me again when I can form fists and I'll let you know just how _fucking_ _fantastic _I'm feeling.

"I've never done this with a conscious subject before," she said, looking vaguely nostalgic. "I left the other three in deep sleep because I heard that this transfiguration is doubly more painful than the Cruciatus curse – is it really _that_ bad?"

I closed my eyes again – I could feel myself trembling from pain, and her nonchalant demeanor was _so_ not helping things.

"By the way, you're in the girl's loo in the Gryffindor fourth years' dormitory. Pardon me for the mess."

The _mess_? Am I just delirious or did she just apologize for the location, _and not the inexplicably horrifying torture?_

When I opened my eyes again, it hurt less, and my vision was sharper. I wet my lips with my tongue, coughed, (regretted coughing; who knew air could scrape the inside of your throat so badly?) then breathed, "Pardon… denied…."

"Huh?" She responded smartly. "Oh! Right, hang on." Her wand was out again, and I resisted the urge to cringe. "Sonorus Proprius. Now, could you repeat that?"

I really just wanted to shake my head and let her infer that I said 'Go fuck yourself', but the thought of swinging my head around with a headache like _this_ was not a pleasant thought at all, so I just didn't. Manners be damned, I am in tremendous pain, so my conversational skills might be just _under_ par, today.

She frowned at me and gave me a look that told me I was being ungrateful. I coughed again (it hurt less this time, or maybe I was just getting used to it.) and croaked in a voice that Romilda seemed to barely hear. "When is it… going to… stop?"

"When will it stop _hurting_, you mean?" She asked, and I nodded once. "Uh, good question. Soon, I guess? Um… I left the others knocked out for like… I don't know, a couple hours? I'm not sure when it stops, actually. Good question."

Then she left the room again, and was gone for a couple of minutes. I stretched my fingers and toes and legs and arms and eventually stood, bracing myself against the ceramic tile below the mirror. Everything still hurt, but like I said, I was getting used to it. It wasn't until I straightened my back from my stooped position that I was hit with a wave of pain strong enough to bring me to my knees.

"What are you – oh, you little retard!" …Excuse me? Did she seriously just… "Wait, here, hang on -"

And then she picked me up around my waist again and swung me into the air. To my surprise I did _not_ break a rib, despite her none-too-gentle treatment. (Hmph.) She set me down in her upturned, opposite palm, and I clung to her slightly curled fingers as she walked briskly into another room. I saw the bag laying on a bed in a girl's dormitory (bedecked in red and gold, of course) and shuddered before we exited down some winding stairs. She passed one door, then stopped and entered another door. There were more stairs leading down, and we weren't even entering the common room… The fuck is this? Another dormitory?

"Are you donating me to some first years?!" I was horrified. First year Gryffindors are the scourge of the earth. Trust me. The boys are worse, but it's not as if these little girls and those little _demons seeds_ don't, you know, _talk._ Chances are a little boy will steal me, then a slightly larger little boy, and then I'll wind up with the – SHIT. POTTER. NO. THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING –

"Will you calm down?" Romilda said, and she was _definitely_ scolding me now. I mean, what the hell? How does she get off, treating me like I'm immature, when she's the one doing magical experiments on sixth year boys in her bathroom? "The first years go up a different staircase from the fourth through seventh years, and it's in a descending order, so keep your panties on."

_Panties?!_ I will kill her entire family with my bare hands.

But wait. If, um, if we're in the older girls' part of the tower… and the older the girls are, the closer they are to the bottom level… and there were, you know, more stairs… but we passed one door… we're…

"What year is this?" I asked weakly. I loosened my grip on her fingers. Maybe she would take pity on my and shake her hand suddenly, and I would fly off and hit a wall and die or something. I mean, my spine still hurt, I'm not going to lie, but maybe it really would be for the best…

She rolled her eyes. "Don't be such a drama queen, you prissy little girl." Her _entire famil_y. If she has any pets, I will kill her pets. "These are the sixth year girls."

Brown. Patil. _Granger._

POTTER. WHY? Everything, and I swear to god I mean _everything_, leads back to that little speccy git.

Romilda smiled understandingly. "Don't worry," she cooed. "Hermione's _really_ sweet once you get to know her. She'll be coming up soon, so remember to play nice, okay?"

Then she pulled aside the curtains on one bed and dropped me next to an orange, furry, squashed-looking cat. It blinked at me apathetically, but afterwards it seemed to go back to sleep. Bastard cat. (I'm not saying I'm a dog person – dogs are stupid – but cats are _bastards_. Always.) I suppose, though, that I'm lucky that it wasn't hungry or something. Anyway, I twisted around to face Romilda and found myself face to face with the business end of a wand.

"Oh, for Christ's sake-"

"Stupefy."

* * *

"Rennervate."

Second time I've been stupefied in the same day. Or, uh, is it the same day? How long was I out the first time? Huh. Anyway, this was a different voice and a different face and a different emotion entirely.

Granger.

She was wearing her school uniform, but she'd ditched the robe somewhere. She sat with her back against one of the posts of her canopy bed, and her legs curled to the side, under her. The cat was in her lap. She had her head cocked to one side, and kept her wand trained on me as I slowly sat up, then stood, stretching my neck and silently rejoicing that I could move pain-free now. I must have been out for a few hours, I guess. I pulled a gigantic cat hair off of my pant leg and then sneered at my audience.

"Granger, do you really think I could incapacitate you now, even if I did have a miniature wand? Put that away."

She looked fascinated, and obeyed to the point of standing (the cat sort of slid off her lap gracelessly and streaked toward the door) and setting her wand down on her night table. Then she went back to her seated position, but closer and leaned forward a bit. My sneer faltered. Wasn't Granger supposed to, you know, get red in the face and start yelling at me? Or bite back some sarcastic remark? Or punch me or hex me or something? I'm not even armed. She's wasting an opportunity with her creepy non-blinking staring that actually really needs to stop sort of now.

"What?" I spat defensively. "What're _you_ looking at, Mudblood?"

"Funny…" She said, but it didn't even sound like she was responding to me. "I thought she designed you not to recognize your owners?"

"You're not my _owner_, you dumb bint."

"Then what are you doing in my dormitory, on my bed?" I could have puked from the implications. Granger was completely oblivious to her own innuendo.

"Romilda put me here, it's not like she told me why -"

Granger smirked. "You're a gift."

… "Excuse me?"

"Romilda gave you to me as a gift." She said, smirking even more widely. It looked horrible on her; her face is too honest for smirking. "You're not _real_, Malfoy. You're a toy – a defective prototype. She asked me to try to sort out your glitches."

You know what? For a second, one dreaded second, I almost believed her. I mean, how would I know? What if I wasn't the real me, but only a copy? It wasn't impossible, I had been stupefied for quite a while, after all. Then I remembered that Granger was _wrong_, because the conscious mind doesn't just leap around like that, and I _remember_ being six feet tall this morning. If I wanted to convince her or anyone, I had to stick to my convictions. I AM real. All the others (err… All the other six-inch Draco Malfoys, at least…) are fake!

"She lied!" Granger didn't look at all impressed. "I'm the _real_ Draco Malfoy! She knocked me out and shrunk me!"

"Right." She said, rolling her eyes. "And so are all of the other miniature Malfoys running around. And I suppose one of those tiny Harrys is the real Harry, and not the one sitting downstairs?"

"No," I said, remembering what Romilda said about the others. "Potter and Weasley are real because she turned them back and put them back to the right size. She made me blood and bones again, but I'm still six inches high."

Granger _finally_ looked interested. "She performed an inanimate-to-living transfiguration on you? And you remember it?"

I scoffed. "Yes, unfortunately. Hurt like nothing you could imagine."

"But… That's very advanced magic. I wonder where she learned it." Oh, I could throttle her. She looked away, and her eyes seemed to focus on nothing at all, but a middle-distance. It was as if, in the empty air between the wall and her bed, she could see a huge piece of parchment with text appearing on it, unraveling the answers to every question she posed. She shook her head slightly before saying, "Well, it's late. I can fix you tomorrow."

I bristled at the word 'fix', and she laughed at me.

Whatever. Tomorrow I'll convince her that I'm the real thing and then she'll take me to Dumbledore and Romilda will die in a fire or something. Until then, there's still _tonight_.

"Granger," I drawled, still standing in the middle of her bed. "I may be the size of a pocket vibrator, but I'm not going to sleep with you."

Her face went crimson and I giggled internally. I mean chuckled. Or chortled, or did whatever synonym for laughter that isn't gay. "Shut up, Malfoy! Like hell I'd let you sleep in my bed anyway!"

She grabbed me and opened the top drawer of her nightstand, then lowered me into it.

It was kind of claustrophobic. (Thankfully, however, _I_ am not at _all_ claustrophobic.)

Then she dropped a ragged piece of cloth on me. I had barely wormed out from under it when a stuffed animal – an almost flat, basic image of a cat's face, with two button eyes and a stitched mouth, about as wide as I was tall – dropped in front of me.

"Pillow and blanket." Granger called, before pushing the drawer all but two feet – inches, I guess – closed.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

I was right.

It was a _long_ goddamn night, and then I woke up earlier than Granger so I was stuck sitting in the drawer with that little cat-head and the old shirt that Granger had given me as bedding. I observed somewhat sickly that my fingers were about as wide as the thread stitching on the 'pillow'.

What am I going to do? I mean, shit, y'know? Pansy has to be worried about me... right? Well, probably not too much, since it _was_ a Saturday night. By midday today, though, she'll think I… have a tremendous hangover… Fuck. Okay, I can expect her to start getting _really_ worried by, like, Tuesday.

The worst thing about this is that Romilda was right. Most people will think I've joined my father and the Dark Lord. Pansy and Blaise will know better, but if it weren't for them – or if no one listens to them – no search party would be sent. After all, whatever I look like, I am still "not a nice guy". Dumbledore's known as a genius, but he's also known as a blindly trusting, Muggle-loving old geezer. He'll believe anything Potter tells him, and Potter says I'm a Death Eater trainee. Pansy and Blaise and Theo Nott will try to find me, though. I know they will. When they do, I'll tell _them_ the truth and they'll help me get this sorted.

Until then, I'll just let Granger carry me around and I'll have to try to prove that I'm real.

Proof…

A pensieve? That would be perfect, and I have the perfect book, too, except that it's in my room. I could navigate Granger down to my room (with a little persuasion) and get inside, and then I could get the book and this manuscript. I'd also want to pick up –

_The manuscript!_

Not in a house nor in a manor but in _paper_ shall I find my salvation! Yes! And I bet that most of what happened – while I was conscious anyway – was recorded! Evidence! Oh, this could not have worked better if it had been planned. Perfect.

Now I just need to bring Granger down to my room and Romilda will get put in Azkaban or something. I don't really care, I just want to be the right size – and once Romilda is in custody, she can be forced or coerced into setting me back. Yes. Dumbledore is a master of Legilimency, isn't he? I'll be back to my proper height by no later than Friday.

Until then, Granger is still asleep.

I could amuse myself with imagining beating the tar out of Romilda Vane (and then Potter, while I'm beating people…) or word games or something. I suppose I could try to wake Granger up – I am audible now, aren't I? – except that she shares a room with _Brown and Patil_ and quite honestly I don't want them finding me.

I wonder what time it is, anyway. The little bit of light that enters the drawer is still faint and blue-ish, so it must be early. Before dawn, perhaps. I would go back to sleep, but I don't want Granger to find me unconscious. It's enough that she's got a height advantage on me – which she _never_ had before, she's only like 5'4" or 5'5" – I _can't_ let her see me –

"Malfoy?" I could see Granger's eyes and forehead peering into the drawer. I started to stand up, but immediately fell back down when she opened the drawer. "I don't want Lavender or Parvati to see you while you're still broken. Come on."

And then she stuck her hand down into the drawer, with her fingers curled up in a loose cup and her thumb sticking out. It was really sort of demeaning, that I would have to depend on Granger to carry me around with her, but I swallowed my pride and sat down on her palm. Her thumb came to rest on my lap like a seatbelt.

She lifted me out of the drawer and I'll admit I might have clung to her fingers just a little bit. It was a bumpy ascent, and she turned me around at an awkward angle so that I was facing her.

"Comfy?" She asked sarcastically.

I sneered at her. "Worried about me, Granger? I didn't know you cared."

She sniffed condescendingly – stupid, self-empowering Gryffindors – and then I was facing forward as we made our way out of the dormitory and down the stairs.

* * *

**I know this chapter is both short and woefully late, and I apologize. My laptop charger was at my friend's house for a few days and I was spending time with a lot of my favorite people before I move to another continent tomorrow, but I won't make any more excuses.**

**Some of the spells I used (made up, a_hem, _thanks, online Latin Translator...) ****include "Quietus Audite", which basically reduced the volume of what Draco was able to hear, making him less sensitive to loud noises. "Obliviatus Maxima" was intended to be a spell to forget ****_everything_, and it, like Geminio, isn't meant for complex or large animals. "Sonorus Proprius" translates to 'Sound Always' or 'Sound Forever'. **

**I will try to bring the next chapter out by next Friday, but I start back to school this week... Thank you so much for your reviews, Kermita and voldyismyfather. **

**Until next week, please and thank you for reviews!**

**_Godzilla_**


End file.
